the importance of teamwork
by Heuksal
Summary: Wolf and Hoxton play spotter on a cold roof, early in the Payday gang's career.


Babysitting cameras wasn't Wolf's idea of a good night. Dallas and Chains were having all the fun, running circles around guards and getting themselves rich. Wolf found quiet jobs tedious-it was so much better to throw himself into the action than sit back and get lost in his own head while waiting for a drill-but he would much rather be down there than sitting in front of a gutted security box on a lonely corner of a frigid roof, slowly losing feeling in his ass.

It was all Dallas's fault, he sulked. Wolf had taken a bullet in the thigh on their last escape, and Dallas was adamant about not putting him back in the thick of things for a while longer. Even Chains had been on Dallas's side, and Chains was usually more lenient when it came to scrapes. In spite of his combat medic training, Chains was drawn to the roar of a firefight as much as Wolf was—although, at times like this, Wolf had to admit he was better at it.

He checked the cams again, updating Dallas with the guard locations over the radio. Hoxton, crouched by the skylight and using his sniper scope for a rare non-lethal purpose, did the same.

Hoxton liked sneak jobs even less than Wolf did, so maybe he didn't mind that his role on this heist was to babysit the camera-babysitter. Dallas had called it "backup", but Wolf knew busywork when he saw it.

Was he really a liability? His stomach dropped at the idea. The Payday gang—they were perfect, they were the best decision he'd ever made. Working with them was the reason he opened his eyes in the morning, the reason he loaded his gun, and the reason he'd charged an FBI riot shield in the first place. These men were his life. If he wasn't good enough—if they didn't want him—

"Oi, Wolfy. Are you alright?"

He was shaking intensely, Wolf realized dimly, from his shoulders to his icy fingertips. His chest ached from clenched muscles, and he drew in cold air through chattering teeth to try and calm himself down.

Hoxton had moved from the skylight while Wolf's attention was lapsed, and, realizing what he wasn't doing, Wolf dove for the camera feed.

Hoxton plucked the tablet from his shaking hands. "Guard patrol's changing up. Dallas is waiting in a closet until they stop moving." He squatted next to Wolf, leaning his rifle against his shoulder. "Aren't you from Sweden? Didn't think you'd be such a delicate flower in the cold."

"Fuck you!" he snapped, with more venom than he meant. Hoxton was always good at getting under his skin, but now it stung more than ever. The idea of being useless to him was worse than that of being useless to Dallas.

Strangely, Hoxton didn't snap back. He pushed his mask up and pulled out a cigarette, instead. "How's the leg?"

Wolf slumped back, trying to control his shivering. His tense muscles were making everything ache—especially the hole in his leg he was trying to ignore. At least the hot pain beneath the bandage warmed his cold fingers.

"Sweden's not actually that cold, you know," he mumbled, trying not to sound pathetic. "It's not like we're Norway or something."

"Could be worse. Could be wet and cold, like London. Miserable place." Hoxton cupped a hand around his cigarette to hide the flare of light as he lit up. Must be warm, Wolf thought ruefully. "Not that this is exactly balmy."

"It's freezing," Wolf agreed, hugging one knee and leaving his injured leg extended. Hoxton leaned back on his heels, not close enough to touch but Wolf could feel the sudden lack of cold at his side. His first, desperate instinct was to lean into it, and he snatched the tablet back to distract himself.

Dallas and Chains weren't visible on the cameras. Hoxton reached over and tapped one of the feeds-a dark hallway where a security guard leaned against a door, idly poking at his phone.

"Ohhh." Wolf winced in sympathy. Guards who took unscheduled breaks instead of keeping to their assigned patrol were the worst enemy of stealth jobs. "Chains?"

"Same place."

"Maybe it's not so bad up here after all." Wolf always seemed to get crammed into someone's armpit whenever they had to make a desperate dive for cover.

"You'll never find me poncing about in a closet when there's money to be made," Hoxton scoffed. The lull between loud, heavy jobs was inevitable—they had to keep things quiet while waiting for the heat to fade. Dallas worked with Bain to cycle between jobs that kept the FBI guessing, and left the crew time to physically recover. It was near impossible to come out of a firefight unscathed, after all (unless your name was Chains). Hoxton, however, was always the first to present his lack of patience for breather jobs.

"Dallas wants to keep things quiet for a while longer, I guess." Wolf couldn't resist the self-conscious urge to rub his wound again. It hurt, but he was still upset with himself for holding the crew back.

"Funny of you to bring that up!" The sudden brightness in Hoxton's voice was dangerous. He put a too-friendly arm over Wolf's shoulder, leaned in close enough that Wolf could see the sparks of his cigarette reflected in his eyes. Wolf found himself grateful that his mask was still hiding his own face. "What the fuck did you think you were doing back there?"

Dallas hadn't needed to rake him over the coals; a few quiet words while Chains was stitching up Wolf's leg had been more than enough to send home exactly how foolish he'd been, and he was still squirming from guilt days later. His stomach dropped further at the prospect of getting the same treatment from Hoxton.

"What was I supposed to do?" he grumbled, looking away. The worst part was that this was the most comfortable he'd been all night; the close proximity lessened his shivering.

"Maybe not something as stupid as trying to climb the riot shield? Leave the suicidal shite to Dallas. One person gets his attention, someone else gets his back. That's what works, that's how we do it."

"But—"

Hoxton jabbed a finger into his chest. "If you want me to watch your back, fucking let me. You need to start trusting your crew."

"Of course I trust you!" Wolf jerked back in surprise. He was practically in Hoxton's lap, he realized with a stab of embarrassment. Hoxton didn't seem as though he'd noticed, so Wolf forged on. "That's not what I was thinking at all!"

"Then what were you thinking? That Dallas would give you a kiss if you were _extra heroic?_" Hoxton put on a syrupy-sweet voice that made Wolf's fists clench.

"Somebody had to to do it! What if he shot one of you?" His face was heating up beneath his mask.

"He did." Wolf bit back a yell as Hoxton clamped his hand onto his thigh. Dallas had pronounced him hale enough to walk, but Dallas's professional touch was a far cry from Hoxton trying to jam his thumb in the bullet hole. Wolf was sitting too closely to shove him off—instead, he pounded Hoxton's shoulder in an awkward struggle that was closer to a hug than a punch.

"_Din jvel!_"

"You deserve it, you stupid meatball!"

Wolf smacked Hoxton's hand off of his leg, but his other arm was still around Wolf's shoulder. "Trusting your crew is letting them cover your back," he said, his eyes pinning Wolf in place. "Don't run off like that."

"Fine," muttered Wolf, breaking his gaze with great effort and looking for something interesting off to his left. His mask didn't feel like it was hiding anything. "It was just—I was just trying to help."

"Do you know how much trouble we'd be in if you got yourself killed? We've never had hits like this, mate."

"Really?" The hope in his voice was pathetic.

"Is that what this whole thing is about? You're insecure about your killcount?" Wolf couldn't tell whether he was hearing disgust in Hoxton's incredulous question and hunched in on himself a little more tightly. "Oh, come off it, mate. If you were useless Dallas wouldn't have you here in the first place."

Wolf stopped himself from saying something completely humiliating like "You really think so?", but he turned back to Hoxton and it must have been written on his mask, because Hoxton rolled his eyes.

"The new kid act is going to get old, but I'll give you one for free—you're useful and if you weren't, you'd know. Now, stop worrying about it."

"Thanks," said Wolf softly. He checked the tablet again, trying to look busy. Dallas sidled out of the closet—directly into an end table, sending the flower vase on top of it wobbling dangerously. He made a grab for it and missed, juggling it back and forth before finally securing it in his arms. Chains shuffled out after him and grabbed his arm, pointing at something off-camera, and the pair disappeared down the hallway just as a guard rounded the corner. Hoxton made a disgusted noise.

"We're going to be here all night," Wolf muttered.

Sitting under Hoxton's arm was dangerously comfortable, but Hoxton didn't appear to be getting any ideas about moving, either. A sneaking suspicion hit Wolf as Hoxton's warm secondhand smoke filled his lungs. "Are you staying like this because you're cold, too?"

Hoxton tried to shrug noncommitally, but it felt like he used the gesture to huddle in closer. "Alright, so I'm freezing my fucking bollocks off. It's a good thing Dallas can't see us. Imagine him trying to cram us into anoraks in the winter."

"Please don't give him ideas."

"Five hundred dollars says he brings that vase back to the safehouse."

"Maybe it's valuable," Dallas tried, two and half hours later.

Wolf handed Hoxton a dollar.


End file.
